


The Royal Festival

by sunshinestealer



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 05:14:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5696371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinestealer/pseuds/sunshinestealer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>King Asgore holds a yearly festival on Castle grounds. Papyrus discovers a new hero in Undyne. Bone bros fluff, what can I say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Royal Festival

It is a day of much celebration when the King chooses new recruits for his court. Monsters come out in droves, and the MTT Hotel is fully booked. Some monsters bring blankets and cushions from the Dump, as well as homemade picnic food. Those who deign to stay at home can watch it live on TV, but it’s a much better experience to simply walk a few miles eastwards and then take an elevator. (If you can get on, that is.)

The day is so celebrated among monsters that often, those who have failed to book a hotel room well in advance often post on the Underground’s social network, asking if anyone would mind a stranger sleeping on the floor in their suite.

Over the years, Sans has made a nice little earner out of this, booking up two or three hotel rooms and filling them with other monsters, whilst reserving a decent twin room for himself and Papyrus. It’s nice to get a little bit of rest and relaxation away from the four jobs he’s currently working. 

Plus, this is Papyrus’ favourite time of year. One of these years, he swears to Sans while they’re walking from Snowdin, he’ll be up there as the captain of the Royal Guard, stood in pride of place next to King Asgore. 

“Heh,” Sans replies. “Just don’t forget about me when you’re famous. Remember the little people.”

“I will not forget you!” Papyrus retorts. “How could I ever forget a brother who was so little, _and_ annoying?”

“Aw, you don’t mean that.”

“You put _firecrackers_ on my doorframe!”

“You were sleepwalking, bro.”

“I most certainly was not! I was _on the go_ , listening to music on one of those devices the humans throw down here. With the little white headphones.”

“We don’t have ears to plug them into.”

“Nyeh!”

Sans chuckles to himself, wondering if he should conjure up a blue-bone attack just to jokingly swat Papyrus with it. Nah, he’d probably freak out and have a bad memory of this year’s Royal Festival. That’s what it’s called, the Royal Festival. Nothing fancy, like an “Ascension Ceremony” or even “the Royal Choosing.” The King’s naming practices leave something to be desired.

The heat of Hotland (another poor name choice) is a marked difference from the year-round cold of Snowdin. Even without skin, the low temperature rattles and stiffens one’s bones. The heat coming up from the lava pits on either side feels like being wrapped an electric blanket. It’s a pleasant, rather than oppressive warmth.

Even with the crappy weather, Snowdin isn’t a cheap place to live. The boys’ landlord decided to hike up the rent again due to a tiny increase in taxes. Turns out, their old man didn’t actually _own_ the cabin, he simply resided in it as part of his wage packet to a royal advisor. This past year, Sans had taken on three jobs, just so Papyrus would have enough pocket money for his puzzle magazines and comics.

The fourth job is the aforementioned money-spinner that is booking multiple hotel rooms. The receptionist at MTT doesn’t even seem to care, and offers him a bulk discount, and a much cheaper rate for that twin bedroom with a nice southerly view of The Core.

When they arrive at the hotel, Sans just has to send the porter a smirk and a thumbs up, and they’re off to their room. Not exactly the penthouse suite - no way could Sans ever afford that - but it’s comfortable all the same. Papyrus goes: “WOWIE!” at there being a TV, and “WOWIE!” again at the view when he draws back the curtains.

One can already see monsters setting up camp in the fields beyond. There’ll be a few mini stages too, which large TV screens will be propped up on. But, generally, if you know the right people, it’s not hard to get closer to the front. Grillby runs a food stand during the festivities, and it’s close enough to see Asgore with a pair of binoculars. Papyrus has ordered some just for this occasion, which hang proudly around his neck.

The festival isn’t for another day, but already, Papyrus is crowing about travelling down there, to be in amongst the “atmosphere”. Like last year, when they wound up stuck in a pavilion listening to some bat monsters screech music that Papyrus insisted was “avant garde”. The next tent they went into? Rats with trash can lids tied to their feet and hands.

“Nah. Let’s skip the performance art.”

“But I _want_ to go.”

“You can see the highlights on TV. I think Mettaton’s presenting this year.” He sighs in relief when Papyrus bashes the television on, and sits at the foot of his bed. The one closest to the window.

The presenter isn’t Mettaton, or even the prototype version of Entertainment’s Best-Loved Robot Friend.™ It’s a large bear-like creature, with floppy long ears that make him look terribly silly, and Papyrus is almost enamoured with the ineptitude with which he tries to wander around and interview festival-goers. Sans enjoys the presenter ironically, hopping up onto his bed and grinning.

“So… er… you guys… um… smoke this stuff…”

“Wanna take a hit?”

“I… um, I don’t think so! Coming up next after commercial, we talk with the Dumpster Trash, an, er, up and coming act who will really rock your socks off!”

As the screen shifts from the presenter to a commercial for whatever’s sponsoring the festival this year, Papyrus comments: “Nyeh! I am not wearing any socks. So, they shall not be rocked off.”

Sans face-palms.

* * *

 

The morning of the festival comes, and there’s a pretty large crowd walking towards the Castle. For his own safety, Sans makes Papyrus take his hand as they walk through the throng downstairs, and squeezes them both onto a fit-to-bursting elevator in the MTT Hotel lobby. (The same elevator that would later be perpetually out of order.)

Papyrus hums a little in frustration at having to stand so close to so many people. Sans just squeezes his hand reassuringly. In just another hour, they’ll be eating picnic food and watching the Royal Festival. Maybe this year, if they wave to the King, he’ll wave right back.

Just as planned, when they arrive, there’s a clear, signposted route through the festival gardens. Past the large television screens for those stuck at the back, past the market that’s cropped up to sell merchandise of King Asgore, and past the endless line of food carts up to the castle’s tower walls, is a bit of scorched ground. Grillby’s been using his magic to keep a little flame burning there since he arrived earlier in the morning. Sans shoots a thumb’s up. One of the few favours he’s called in so Papyrus can have a great time at the festival.

He stomps out the embers and lays down his parka, which he hardly needs in this pleasant climate. Papyrus flops himself down on it, just content to watch the clouds go by. Sans keenly ignores Grillby, who’s probably _still_ going to complain about Sans’ tab. Oh well. He takes out the picnic food from the huge camping backpack Papyrus has had to lug around, which together with the binoculars makes him look like some caricature of a human ‘bird-watcher’.

* * *

 

There’s a trumpeting sound. One of the armless lizard monsters dashes up to the prow of the tower to look down on the adoring subjects, using his long, prehensile tail to hold up the declaration in front of his face. He sounds terribly posh, considering Sans remembers him and his family as Snowdin residents… but still. When in Rome. Whatever that meant.

“HIS MAJESTY KING ASGORE REQUESTS OF HIS SUBJECTS, A MOMENT’S SILENCE FOR THE PRINCE. MAY HE REST IN PEACE.”

Papyrus stops fidgeting for just a moment, and Sans shrugs and joins in with the giant… prayer hive mind, or whatever you’d call it. Some monsters didn’t take the elevator today, due to wishing to pay their respects in the nearby Chapel. Last time Sans checked around there (back when he had a job cleaning the vestry), it was almost overflowing with plucked flowers, arranged in bouquets. He would always swear that he saw _one_ flower move, however…

Sixty seconds pass, and the lizard starts up his yelling again. “THE ROYAL FESTIVAL IS A CELEBRATION OF NOT JUST THE KING’S BENEVOLENT RULE, BUT ALSO, OF THE SUCCESSES OF THOSE WHO BENEFIT THE KINGDOM. ALL RISE FOR THE ENTRANCE OF KING ASGORE, TO DECREE THE FESTIVAL OPEN.”

Sans mutters, “it was open at 7 o’clock this morning.”

“Nyeh. Perhaps some people were late.”

The trumpets resound, and Sans wonders if he could take up being a Royal Bugler. He’s certainly more skilled than the monsters up there, one of whom actually plays a farting, sour note towards the end that sounds like it’s from a comedy skit.

Still, you’ve got to remember your manners. Sans and Papyrus both stand up, hand over heart in that pledge of royal allegiance you’re taught in school. 

King Asgore strides up to the tower, resplendent in his armour and holds up his arms for silence from the cheering masses. The lizard realises something quickly, and his tail darts out to switch on an old silver microphone. Asgore clears his throat and looks down upon his kingdom.

“Howdy!”

The crowds of monsters call back: “HOWDY!” Sans chuckles when Papyrus does it as well.

Sans remembers back when it was three royals instead of just one. Though, he was rather little at the time, sitting on the old man’s shoulders. The King’s lost two family members, and Sans wouldn’t wish that on anyone, not even his worst enemy. 

King Asgore decrees the festival open (to much cheering), and then goes on for quite some time about what has been accomplished in the year prior. The achievements of his Royal Guard, the achievements of the Royal Scientists (although clearly edited, according to Sans), and finally, something geared towards the littler monsters. Asgore gets every monster ‘who started school this month’ to cheer his name. Papyrus is in his final term of mandatory schooling, and although it’s clear that Asgore probably means ‘kindergarteners’, Papyrus still holds up his arms and whoops. Sans chuckles to himself.

The King then goes into a spiel about what a massive ‘dork’ he is, in Sans’ eyes. Seriously, would any other ruler address his younger subjects and ask them if he did a good job as Santa this year? If they liked the presents he and his elves made, if they came to Santa’s Grotto at MTT Hotel… Every monster above a certain age knows that the gifts given to children by Santa are just repurposed human trash, collected and wrapped by Royal Treasury drones. It clashes a little with Snowdin’s local legend, but hey. Spirit of the holidays. Anything that gets you two weeks off work is more than a reason to celebrate.

Asgore clears his throat, finally ready to announce those he has deigned as worthy to join his court. It’s a pretty high honour, one that takes monster families from obscurity into fortune. Just look at the lizard announcer guy, whose parents now live in the fanciest cabin in Snowdin Town. _Ooh la la_.

Just a few years ago, Asgore had introduced to his subjects his new Royal Scientist. Some lizard broad in a sparkly dress and opera gloves, dressed to the nines for the occasion when a lab coat to designate her new role would have probably sufficed. There’s going to be no new Royal Scientist appointed this year, and Sans reminds himself to look up one of her papers when he gets home. Sometime about an up and coming anomaly in the timeline? Probably a miscalculation.

There’s only two candidates this year. Asgore turns, beckoning the both of them out of the tower door with a curl of his claws. 

There’s a chameleon-like creature who is introduced as “The Royal Chaplain.” Great. No more money to be made scrubbing the parquet, cleaning the altar or brushing the dust out of the stained glass windows. The chameleon’s job is to oversee the Chapel, hold services if people need them, and also do confessions. Heh. Sans wonders if there is some form of coin to be made out of that. Papyrus nods fervently. “The last time there was a Royal Chaplain, it was his job to weigh the sins of monsters!”

Sans can’t quite think of how that… well, works, but he humours Papyrus anyway. His brother has now become fixated on something else, as the Chaplain steps backwards and allows his fellow recruit to take centre stage. Clad in heavy armour, the poor monster inside must be absolutely baking hot, but as they rip off their helmet to address the crowds, it’s clearly a coldblooded species. Or at least, a coldblooded creature that doesn’t care much for the danger of overheating.

“My name is Undyne and I have been appointed as Captain of the Royal Guard!”

A large cheer from the crowd. Sans recognises the monsters who are cheering the loudest as native to Waterfall. Nice to do a little bit of detective work every now and again. Papyrus sits, still transfixed. Shame one can’t see exactly _what_ he’s focusing on, without eyeballs.

Coupled with that cool eyepatch, Undyne’s long ponytail flaps in the wind, like some dramatic anime hero. She takes the microphone from Asgore. All she needs to do now is rest her foot on the edge of the parapet and the look will be complete. Oh. She did.

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU. SHOW SOME RESPECT!”

Great. The Captain of the Royal Guard is a completely loose cannon. Still, the monsters cheer louder, one nearby Sans and Papyrus breaking out into a coughing fit.

“MUCH BETTER.”

She clears her throat, leaning forward and somehow keeping her balance. One little push or stumble, and she’ll be dust. Papyrus puts two thumbs up at the gesture, and even claps.

“Our brave and benevolent King Asgore has been through much these past few years. We have fought! We have researched! We have explored! Today, on this greatest of days, I am able to say that our King has gotten us much closer than ever before to breaking through to the surface world!”

Wow. If the crowd were merely cheering before, they’re absolutely _roaring_ now. Through his binoculars, Papyrus can see Asgore nodding. Saves him from having to make the grand speech.

“We have _five_ human souls right now. Which is why we must be extra vigilant with our scouting patrols — a human could come down here at any time!” (Papyrus cringes at the mention of a human.) “We need to harvest their souls to get through the Barrier and take our revenge on the pitiful, stupid creatures above who killed our beloved Prince. ARE YOU WITH ME!?” The last sentence comes out as an impassioned screech, but it works.

The crowd goes into an uproar again, and Papyrus has to drop his binoculars and cover his hearing ducts. Well, if a human does fall down, they’ll probably have to get through the Ruins first. Next time he goes to the large stone door with his hilarious repertoire of knock-knock jokes, Sans will ask the old monster behind the barrier if any humans have fallen. If there have been any, then boom. Instant profit.

There’s another skeleton going around selling bottles of water for only 2G. He might as well be _giving_ them away, Sans reminds him as he tosses over 4 gold pieces for two bottles of water.

Papyrus starts sipping his drink, only to nearly spit it out again when Undyne starts her tirade. In another timeline, she’d probably be an entertainer — a musician, probably. Way more successful than that ghost who owns the snail farm, at least.

“Remember, the Guard is _always_ recruiting. If you have just left school and are looking for something to do with your life, come to a Guard Station and FILL IN THE DAMN APPLICATION FORM!” Another cheer. Papyrus looks like he’s just discovered the meaning of life.

Sans has to pop that bubble, but only temporarily. He nudges his brother. “Finish your exams and art project first. _Then_ I’ll call in a favour with the Guard Dogs.”

“WOWIE!”

“Yeah, I know. I’m pretty a cool brother.”

Undyne takes a swig of water from a glass of water that’s provided for her, and shouts into the microphone again. “ALL HAIL KING ASGORE!”

The crowd, still frenzied, repeat Undyne’s sentiment. Asgore takes the stage again.

“What a passioned speech from our new Captain of the Royal Guard, Undyne.” He turns and applauds her, and the crowd respond in kind. Undyne does some dramatic bow. Papyrus stands up, clapping and even trying to whistle with two fingers on each hand. Which, bless him, he cannot do.

Asgore calls for silence. “We are closer to this goal than ever before. We must all be vigilant. Remember apprehending a human is a matter of public safety. You never know just how they’ll exact violence onto us monsters, even if they seem to be peaceful…”

* * *

 

Asgore’s speech goes on for ten minutes more, until he finally decrees the festivities to be “in full swing!” He asks his subjects to wait just a few moments, and he will be downstairs to operate the enormous barbecue around the side of the tower. He wears a new comedic apron every year, and Sans is curious to know what’s emblazoned on it this time around. Last year it was KING OF THE BBQ.

All the monsters diligently get in line for the hot dogs, vegetarian kabobs and burgers. Sans is a little disappointed to see that Asgore’s wearing the same apron as last year, but he takes the burger and bites into it, eager to savour the taste. Rather than just tossing it down his neck, the way Papyrus does.

Following the barbecue, the crowd begin to disperse. The festivities will still go on another day or two, but the main event _is_ the King’s Speech. Sans tells Papyrus to hang around a little so they don’t get caught up in the crowds, and they wander through the rapidly emptying market stands. 

Sans’ phone buzzes about an hour later, with hotel payments. Yep, Papyrus is getting a new art set this week. If it’ll help him finish school and get into the Royal Guard, then so be it.

He and Papyrus head back to the hotel for one more night of rest and recuperation, then the walk back to Snowdin. Papyrus’ awed reaction and incessant discussion of how “cool” Undyne was fills the time on their trek back, and at the first Guard Station they pass, Papyrus asks for an application form. Sans takes it, rolls it into a scroll and says he’ll place it in his workshop for Papyrus to fill in at a later date.

“Fine. Nyeh!”

Nobody can ever say he wasn’t the best brother ever.


End file.
